


that which haunts your dreams

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [92]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 20:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: The last thing left in Pandora's box was hope.Newt let it out long ago; there's no way this is ending in anything but tragedy, no matter what the hallucination of Hermann is insisting.





	that which haunts your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> drsarah1281 asked: "And for that matter... what we were talking about the other day! Newt has a hard time believing the world's really been saved and the precursors stopped because they used to show him simulations of the day being saved during his captivity to help break his spirit."

“It’s alright, Newton,” Hermann says; softly, hand hovering over his, “it’s alright, we’ve got you now. You’re not trapped anymore,” so, so _gently,_and this is something Newt’s been waiting for.

“H—Hermann?” he asks, voice hoarse and cracking, “Hermann, is that—is that really you? How did you—?”

“Shh,” Hermann says, and grabs his hand; staring into Newt’s eyes, fiercely. “I did it, Newton, _we _did it—we destroyed them, Newton. You’re free now. Come with me.”

His skin against Newt’s, icy-cold, is a shock. “I—” he stumbles over the words; clogging in his throat, and he feels like he’s _choking_ on them. “Please, Hermann—”

“It’s _real,_” Hermann says, jaw set; expression shuttered, but still, Newt can see pain there. “Come with me, love—”

It’s that that catches; snags against Newt’s mind like a torn nail on fabric; barely making any impact at the start, and then, eventually, tearing, tearing, _tearing;_ wears against his mind in but a few seconds, and he says, sharply, “Hermann, what did you _say?_”

The other freezes. “Let’s _go,_ Newton,” he urges, eyes wild, now. “We _have_ to—”

“_Why?_” Newt demands, “I thought you said you—”

And it all shatters like stained-glass; the colours seeping out of the room around him; out of Hermann, too, his skin turning pale, pale grey; and then it falls from three dimensional to flat—lines against lines, slipping through his fingers and crumple to the floor. The last to go—as if _mocking_ him—is Hermann’s face; frozen for the last second, in worry (for _him) before it goes, too, unspooling before his eyes.

_Silly little human,_ they laugh, the words echoing through the blank emptiness of his mind. _You don’t _really _think he’ll save you, do you? After what you said to him?_

“He’ll do it!” Newt shouts, defiantly, “he beat you once—he’ll do it again. Hermann’ll realise what’s wrong—he’s a genius!”

They laugh. _He won’t,_ they say; conversationally, nearly. _After what you said?_ No _one would._

“That's—that’s not true!” Newt protests, but it's—_softer,_ now; doubt creeping in because, because; it’s _true;_ no one in their right mind _would._ “He will,” he says; but it’s more to himself, now, the words a hollow attempt at reassurance. “He will…right?” He _has_ to.

They laugh, again. _Humans,_ they say, _you cling so _foolishly _to hope. Oh well—it’ll just be more amusement for us when your false illusions finally shatter._

And then they’re gone, leaving Newton trapped, alone, in his own mind; surrounded only by the white on white of this corner of his mind, and the gnawing fear that it’s getting too late.

* * *

The cold press of the restraints on his wrists are new; as is the chair he’s bound to. Usually, they make it a bit friendlier—Hermann finding him at the penthouse, or Hermann, early on, recognising he’s spiralling, or Hermann, or—

Still, one thing remains the same: Hermann.

He paces the floor in front of Newt, not speaking; Newt takes the time to look around; take in the vista, as it were. Needless to say, it’s not the nicest he’s seen, what with the bindings on his wrists and ankles; the bloodied shirt sticking against his skin from sweat. Experimentally, he drags his tongue over his teeth; finds, for the first time, that they’re still a _bit_ too sharp.

Usually, they at least afford him the illusion of normalcy; either they’re getting bored, or getting cruel. Or both.

He raises his gaze to track the mathematician.

It’s more realistic this time, he notes; the lines on Hermann’s face are deeper, this time; his mouth set grimly; his eyes showing the wear of the years—Newt’d always teased him about age, but the truth is, the War wore on them all; added grey hairs and decades to all of them. He thinks, perhaps, it’s a bit unrealistic that Hermann isn’t recoiling in fear, but—oh well.

“They’re gone, now,” Hermann says; quietly.

He doesn’t meet Newt’s eyes; starts when Newt laughs, high and manic, trailing off into a hacking cough at the end. “Look, dude,” he says, tiredly, “this is just a hallucination, I know, I know, so can we please just…get it over with? And stop tormenting me?”

This time, the mathematician _does_ meet his gaze; bewilderment. They’re getting better at the emotions thing, he thinks, idly; usually, the faces are too…_slack._ “What do you mean?” he asks, “they’ve been driven from your mind, Newton—we saved the world again, remember?”

“Mhm,” Newt hums, just for the sake of it; humouring him. “Yeah, sure. Look, man, this is kinda harsh, but, uh, you aren’t fucking real. Sorry, not sorry. Guys, can we please cut the hallucination?” he shouts, aimed vaguely at the ceiling. “Go, I dunno, terrorise some interns if you want to get your kicks.”

“Newton,” Hermann snaps, “_what_ are you _talking _about?”

Newt sighs. This sucks, honestly—usually, after Newt realises what’s going on and calls out their bullshit, the Precursors drop the whole thing pretty quickly; it’s only fun for them if Newt’s not aware it isn’t real. Slowly, he says, “Look, Hallucination Hermann—nope, that’s too long, I’m calling you Halluci-mann—you’re part of my hallucination. The Precursors—that’s the crazy aliens who are possessing me, by the way, they’re kinda hellbent on genocide—get their kicks out of torturing me with scenarios and situations of you…fixing things. Saving me.”

He wishes he could wave his hands to add effect, but, oh, well; say la vie.

“I am _not_ a product of your imagination,” Halluci-mann snaps, shifting his grip on his cane; he looks…_angry?_ “This is _very much_ real, Newton.”

Newt lets his eyes flicker shut. If he falls asleep, it’ll end sooner.

“Newton _Geiszler!_” shouts the other, right up close; he must’ve moved; Newt can imagine the heat of his breath against his cheek. “Open your eyes—_now!_” Anger and…_desperation?_ Yes, that’s it.

“You’re really getting good at the imitation thing,” Newt says, tiredly; eyes still closed. He’d open them, but he can’t bear to get another glimpse of this fake version of Hermann. It’s…too much, honestly; to have this hope, this _possibility,_ and to know…to know that it’s all just an illusion. “Just…let it end. _Please._” It’s quiet; a plea, nearly, even though he knows it won’t do shit; they enjoy this too much.

He doesn’t expect it when it happens; the sharp inhale of breath and then the weight of arms around him; as much of a hug as Hermann can manage with him strapped down like this. He draws in a shaky breath; his cheeks are…wet? “Oh, Newton,” Hermann murmurs, his own voice heavy with emotion and pain. “Newton, darling, I promise, this is real. _I’m_ real, Newton.” His own face is wet, the moisture spilling over onto Newt’s shoulder.

_Tears,_ Newt remembers. They’re called _tears._

And then, against his will, warmth blossoms in his chest: hope. “It’s alright, Newton,” Hermann murmurs—_Hermann,_ his skin against Newt’s; _real._

“…okay,” Newt mutters, voice uneven. “Okay.”

And he lets his head rest on the other’s shoulder, finally, _finally_…_real._

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
